


Mindlock

by Staraxia



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, HashiMada BigBang 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 06:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16759981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staraxia/pseuds/Staraxia
Summary: The greatest among us are those who can fortify their own hearts.Written for the HashiMada Bigbang 2018 on Tumblr. Prompt: Armor





	Mindlock

Harsh breaths and stifled cries drowned out the sounds of the night. The newly changed sheets rustled and shifted, interrupted only by the occasional creak of the sturdy bed frame. In the dim lighting of the room, of two silhouettes could be seen on the bed, their long hair interwoven like thousands of red strings, indistinguishable from one another.

A sharp gasp, then the arch of a spine, the curve reminiscent of surrender. A spill of dark, dark hair damp with sweat followed his movement, spilling off his body, revealing a splash of white skin that shone stark against the surrounding gloom. The contours of his bare throat were smooth, irresistible as he craned his head back almost helplessly, only to be caught in a powerful yet still gentle embrace.

“Madara.” The man who was holding him close murmured out his name, his voice as soft as the moonlight trickling in through the window. “I love you.”

His warm breath brushed past, tender yet unwavering, and the man in his arms stiffened briefly at the contact, before lowering his gaze.

**Mindlock**

The depths of night. The breathing of the person who lay beside him was deep and steady, clearly sound asleep. Uchiha Madara opened his eyes, his gaze dim as he watched the man’s chest rise and fall to the rhythm of his dreams. Hashirama’s arm was still wrapped around his waist, holding him so tightly that even the slightest of movements was difficult. His friend’s chiseled, carelessly handsome face held a faint smile even in sleep, and Madara could hear every pulse of his heart— _thump-thump, thump-thump,_ and repeating.

Madara lowered his eyes once more. Five years ago, on this same day, he had taken Hashirama’s hand under the same cliff face they had once frequented as children, and Hashirama had declared the date a holiday as soon as he had become the Hokage. When the night had fallen, the village itself had only brightened with colorful lanterns and string lights, and everyone was participating in the many different available festivities. 

Everyone, that is, aside from him. He had been lounging quietly in the courtyard of his empty home with naught but a cup of sake at his side—it was not like he had adored festivals in the first place, with all the people and the noise. Besides, his presence would only hurt the dampen the mood, so why even bother in the first place?

He had been fully prepared to spend the night on his own. But then, of course, Hashirama had to come and change everything.

_“Madara! Are you really not going to see the festival?”_

_“No. I’ve already been there once, two years ago. It’s too crowded for my tastes.”_

_“Then I’ll stay here and keep you company.”_

After they had polished off the sake bottle together, Hashirama had insisted on bringing him to the newly carved Hokage Mountain, his eyes burning with a will that Madara still had not the heart to refuse. The view on the mountaintop had been splendid—ribbons of stars winding their way across the sky, the entirety of the growing village spread out below their feet, and the vast surrounding forests stretching out beyond the horizon.

And there Hashirama had pulled him close and kissed him, if it could even be called that. The “kiss” itself had only been a brush of lips, so soft that Madara had barely even processed it before the man was already pulling away. He could still remember the look in Hashirama had given him—one that was torn between blind panic and hope, wavering in a way that Madara had never seen before, in all his years of knowing the man. He had never thought that his friend would feelings of such a kind for him, of all people, but he only had to meet Hashirama’s eyes once to know that he would not refuse him.

In that moment, it was as if Hashirama had placed his own heart entirely in Madara’s hands, leaving the still-beating organ at the mercy of his whims. He could crush it with a mere syllable, if he so wished, but he would not.

For whoever else could he accept, if not Hashirama?

The raucous cheer of the festival had long since died down, and the streets beyond the windows were silent. Everyone in the village should be asleep now, caught up in their own dreams, just like the man lying beside him. Hashirama’s rhythmic breaths still swept past the crown of his hair, tickling the strands—due to their different in height, when Hashirama was holding him like this, he could only just manage to bury his head in the man’s shoulder and release a breath.

The sound of Hashirama’s heart still hummed in his ear, as steady and clear as ever. If he focused enough, he could hear his own pulse as well, a relentless reminder of living. A shame that the two beats no longer matched.

Madara shifted slightly, repeating his movements until Hashirama’s arm around him loosened, just enough for him to slip out from the embrace. He sat himself down on the edge of the bed, all the while being careful not to disturb the sheets more than necessary, lest he wake his still sleeping companion.

Only the faintest of light still shone in through the papered windows. Madara gazes upon Hashirama’s sleeping face by the paleness of the stars, and though his lips twitch the smile just refuses to come. Yes, he would be the first to admit—Senju Hashirama was one of a kind. He was the torch in the abyss, the sun after a long night, and yet it was his very brilliance that precluded him from seeing the shadows that gathered in the fringes. As this village grew and prospered, so the people grew scheming, pretentious, and ever hungrier. Long gone were their fears of the horrors of war, as greed festered in their hearts. 

Just a few short years ago, he would have been the first to stand and berate such behavior, but now he has held his tongue for over a year. Why speak, only to have his words fall on deaf ears? And though Hashirama had noticed his increasing silence—even came to him today to plead for more patience—he already knew that his time was running short.

This village that had been built by both the Senju and the Uchiha was slowly being dominated by the Senju alone. In these years, Tobirama had been taking full advantage of his brother’s halo—whatever it took to expand the power of the Senju clan, and if he could marginalize the Uchiha in the process then all for the better. His way of thinking, like the majority of the populace, was still stuck back in the Era of Warring Clans, and by now Madara was too weary to stop them.

And then, there was his clan. His clan, so esteemed for the clarity of their vision, had now turned blind eyes to the reality of their situation. Even equipped with their sharingan, they still refused to see how they were increasingly pushed to the boundaries of the village, how the other clans held them in contempt. Instead, they turned their bitter gazes to him, and he found that he could not even fault them. He was the reaper of battlefields, a blade that would not be sheathed—his very existence was a reminder of bitter days—how could they not hate him?

Of course, he would not speak any of this to Hashirama, for what would change even if he had? He knew Hashirama too well—in many respects, they were alike, and if there was one trait they both shared it was the determination to achieve their dreams, the way they envisioned it. Hashirama’s path was already set by none other than himself, and he would follow it to the end, no matter the end. Madara’s words would not change that.

Hashirama mumbled something in his sleep. Madara managed a pale smile as he watched the still-sleeping man snuggle up next to him, smacking his lips much like a child would. “…What am I going to do with you?” he murmured, gentle fingers brushing away the loose strands that had spilled all over Hashirama’s face when he shifted. His wrists still bore red markings from the night’s earlier activities, and while he could not help flushing at the memory, the warmth in his cheeks dispersed all too soon, leaving him cold to the bone. He retracted his hand and looked away.

At that movement, the man sleeping beside him finally seemed to notice something. “……Madara? What’s wrong? Are you having trouble sleeping?” Hashirama’s voice rose blearily from behind his back, clearly the sound of one who had just returned to the world of the conscious. He heard the mattress shift as the man sat up, and then a pair of strong arms were wrapping around him once more, holding him close.

“……No. Just thinking about some things, that’s all.”

“If you say so.” Hashirama chuckled softly before settling his chin on Madara’s shoulder. His gentle breaths were continuous on Madara’s neck, and Madara shivered at the sensation. He would not deny that he felt secure then, pressed back-to-chest in the warmth of Hashirama’s embrace, with his arms locking him in—it was always in moments like these where he would feel the temptation to give in, to just let himself drown in this man’s tenderness, but he knew he would never, _could never_.

As long as he remained on this present path— _Hashirama’s path—_ so the future would elude him. All the roads wound back to darkness, and the only one that remained was lit not by the sun, but by a blood-red full moon. He was Uchiha Madara, and he never been one to forsake reality for the sake of fleeting comforts, no matter how desperately he wanted them.

He has already chosen his path. It would be a lonely, bitter road, but it was the only hope for salvation—to break humanity’s endless cycles of violence and despair. For that, he could give anything. The time would soon come when he would walk in the opposite direction of Hashirama without looking back, and even the tenderness of his love would not chain him down for that much longer now.

**Author's Note:**

> This is such a very late entry *dry laughs at self. 
> 
> I really enjoy reading reviews, so if you have time to leave one that would really make my day. No pressure though


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